The Analyst
by Grace Harney
Summary: Dr. Natalie Owens OC is the only person left who knows the Joker's former identity. He plans to toy with her a little and then kill her off. She plans to learn more about the real him. Batman tries to dissuade her. Ch 1 to 7 summary added to Ch 8
1. Chapter 1

_**Hi everyone, this is the story that most people voted for me to write, but I cheated a little and went with the **_**Death Note**_** and Nolanverse crossover. Please, please, PLEASE read that story. I think it will be really enjoyable and even though it's a crossover, you won't be lost. If you have any questions, please PM me, I'll be more than happy to explain anything concerning **_**Death**__**Note**_**. Please read that story, and please review! I wrote this chapter in a little bit of a hurry, I hope it's okay. It's kind of short too, but I wanted to put it up right away to get the story moving. **_

_**Oh yeah, Dr. Natalie Owens is my OC. Everything else is owned by DC. **_

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_**Chapter 1**_

_I can't, I can't, I just can't today._

_Yes you can, you have to. You have to go to work._

_I don't want to, I just want to go back to sleep and never wake up._

_You have to, that's the only way to get over him. Do it, Natalie. Go on with your life. _

I groaned as the alarm went off again. I had lost count. I slammed the snooze button once more, silencing the obnoxious blaring instantly.

With one eye pressed into the pillow, I opened the other one and looked at the clock. _I should be in work in ten minutes. Damn it, I haven't even brushed my teeth!_

Okay, I had to get out of bed. I had to go to work. Patients were counting on me. I couldn't not show up. They needed counseling. They needed therapy. They needed...

_Someone to listen to their stupid problems and agree that they dealt with them the right way and that their guilt was unfounded. _

I hated that. I hated that cynicism. I had always had it, and these days it was stronger than ever. Some days I could drown it out. Other days, it was right there on the surface, ready to bite anyone and drag to them to the depths. Why, why was it there? All it did was ruin my day. And I wasn't even out of bed and there it was already, gnawing at my toes.

I turned off the alarm before it went off again. I had to get up. And of course, I was going to be late for work.

On my way to the bathroom I called the hospital and told them I'd be late. Indefinitely. "Again?" The lady at the desk, Shelly, asked wryly. I just hung up on her. I didn't have to explain myself to anyone, least of all her. She had no idea what was going on in my life.

It's strange how friends happen to disappear when you really need them the most. It's like no one wants to get too involved. Sure, they'll go shopping with you, go to the movies, girls' night out type of stuff. But once you suffer a real loss, a real emotional gunshot wound, they disappear. No one wants to deal with someone with problems. Everyone has their own issues.

There I went again, cynicism back at full throttle.

My whole house was lavender-themed. I love that color. My bathroom had beige tiles with lavender accents. My shower curtain was lavender. Even my ceramic soap dispenser was lavender.

The color was so calming to me, it seemed to melt away all my troubles. Well, not really, but it helped me relax.

Lavender scented candles lined the edge of the sink counter.

It had only been two months since it happened, and not a day went by that my memory wasn't fresh with the incident. It seemed to get clearer as time went on, more vivid, more torturous. I couldn't stop dwelling on it, the pain was so intense. And the longer I spent thinking about it, the more and more distraught I became, until I was crying once more.

So there I was, alone and naked in the shower, crying against the cold wall of the shower. My recount of what happened would make any woman wince and think, _I'm glad that wasn't me._

And before they could say, _Honey, I'm sorry that happened to you_, I stopped them. It happened twice and I haven't told anyone since. I just told them things didn't work out between us. That we had irreconciliable differences. Ha! Like we were already married.

No, that was the only _good _thing about the whole situation. We _weren't_ married. What a terrible mistake it would have been. I tried to see the good side to it, and eventually, I did. But it was hard to get to that point when you're blind to everything but pain.

I should have never come home early that day. Then maybe I wouldn't be so devastated. And I couldn't believe I hadn't picked up anything. I never thought it would happen _again_. And certainly this was the worst way I could have found out.

The last appointment of my workday cancels and my whole life is destroyed because I decided to come home just two hours early. So I could spend time with _him_. And what is he doing?

The image was seared in my brain. It would never leave me. I thought it was ironic how I, as a psychiatrist, already ruled out the fact that I could never heal from this. How could I help others heal if I couldn't heal myself?

Never had two naked bodies affected me so. A side view of two people right in the middle of it. And I knew the man. I _knew_ him. She was still wearing her red pumps the fucking slut. Blood red pumps that clashed with my lovely lavender.

Time stopped. I know everyone says that, but to feel it something else entirely. With time, I froze too. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I was paralyzed as though in fear.

And then I couldn't stop moving. They pulled away from each other as I spun around and ran out back to the car. I heard him swear inside the bedroom. He didn't even try to stop me.

I don't know why I ran out of the house. I should have gone into the kitchen, taken out a large knife and stabbed them both to death. They deserved it after all. Of course, I would never do that. I wasn't psychotic. I was just hurting.

I spent just a little bit of time drying my hair when I stepped out of the shower, but other than that I didn't do much to get dressed for work. I didn't even wear any makeup. I just jumped into the car and drove to Bludhaven Memorial Hospital.

Shelly glanced at me as I walked in, and I saw her tense up immediately. She was going to say something, I knew it. The way her pink-coated lips tightened and her expression froze on her face. She was going to say something confrontational. "Don't," I pointed at her as I stormed past to my office.

Her lips parted a little and she said nothing.

I was relieved she didn't, otherwise she would have had more on her plate than she could handle.

Then, I was surprised to find someone waiting outside my office. A nurse.

"May I help you?" I asked.

"Hi, Doctor. We need your help at ICU."

"Oh?" I unlocked the door to my office and invited her in. "What's the problem?"

"It's a patient. He woke up a few days earlier and we think he needs an emergency psychiatric evaluation."

I sighed. "All right. I'm a complete mess. Just give me a little while to get some make up on and my coat, okay?"

"Yes, Doctor. He's in room four."

I nodded. "Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

_One thing I forgot to mention in the first chapter was that rewriting this story in the Nolanverse was an idea of a friend of mine. Her name is Lasgalendil and she's an amazing writer! Nothing I can say will ever do her tale justice. Please check out her story, _Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas.

_Once again, please read my other story that I'm working on, _The Shinigami Wager_. I promise you won't be lost and well, I think people are still obsessed with the Joker, so I'll say that he shows up as early as the third chapter. The story is a combination of fantasy, supernatural, and crime genres. Please do read it. I think I'll be updating that story a lot more frequently than this one._

_**Chapter 2**_

An emergency evaluation was usually not very good news. It meant that the patient was giving the nurses trouble and they didn't know how to deal with him. If the patient was comatose and needed someone to sponge, shave, and clean their bodies, those nurses were your best bet. But if the person is awake and has a little personality, forget it. They don't know how to deal with it. It's like they never saw a person who was awake and talking.

I rummaged in my purse and dropped out my make up. It was just something to make me look more professional, and not like a woman who needed some R and R, and then some more. On the back of my office door was a white lab coat, which I tugged on as I was ready to leave.

I went out with a business card of mine, and didn't lock my office door. I'd be back soon anyway. My next appointment wasn't for another half-hour.

I forgot about Shelly at the desk. Her side was to me, and while she wasn't much older than my thirty-four years, she certainly looked much older. Her hair was dull from dyeing it too much, and she had mild acne. She was overweight by about a hundred pounds, which was probably what made her look so old. She was on the phone and her face changed when she saw me. She hurriedly hung up the phone, her acrylic nails clicking on the counter, and she walked out from behind the desk, her chest forward. There were other nurses who stood around, looking at files or also talking on the phone. They exchanged glances, expecting an argument. Luckily, there were no patients around at that particular moment. "You know, when you don't show up for work on time, _I'm_ the one who has to tell _your_ patients that you won't make it to their session."

"Well, not everyone is as punctual as you are," I replied flatly as I headed out of the psych ward lobby.

"If I was a psychiatrist, I would never abandon my patients."

I stopped walking and spun around. "Well, you're not a psychiatrist, you're a receptionist. Just do your job and don't fucking tell me how to do mine!"

"You can't talk to me like that!" She spluttered.

"If you have a problem go talk to the administrator. And if you don't mind," I began seethingly. "I have a _patient_ to see to."

I turned and stormed away, but I heard her say, in shock, "Bitch."

"Go to hell!" I called over my shoulder.

When I turned around I saw a group of three patients coming down the hallway. _Oops,_ I thought to myself, but gave them a stiff smile to let them know everything was okay.

When I passed them I took a deep breath. This wasn't a good disposition for a psychiatrist. I'd send patients running in the other direction with stuff like that. I'd _give_ them problems if they spent enough time with me.

As I headed towards ICU, I stopped by the Cognitive/Speech Therapy Department and talked to one of the speech therapists there. I was still qualified to administer a speech test, so I borrowed a testing file and took it with me down to the ICU.

There, at the nurses' station, I talked to one of them. She showed me his file briefly. Jack Napier. He'd been comatose for one month. Recently woke up, can't remember anything. Neuroscans showed damage to the hippocampus, which relates directly to memory storage in a person's brain. He had already been tentatively diagnosed with retrograde amnesia, but no hemorrhaging or aneurysms. Retrograde amnesia is when a person cannot remember anything before a brain trauma occured.

He had suffered a dislocation when he was struggling against the restraints. He was recovering from this. He also had facial disfiguration from a previously undisclosed event, before being admitted in a critical state. He was also recovering from _that_, since he'd ripped open the stitches recently.

I thanked the nurse as I handed her the file again and walked into Room Four.

I was a little surprised to discover that it was very dark in here compared to the ICU lobby and nurses' area.

The room was quite cool and dry. On the bed was the figure of a man on his back. I couldn't tell if he was awake or not from where I stood, because he didn't turn his head to look at me when I walked in.

I shut the door quietly behind me and pulled a chair closer to the bed. Then he rolled his head towards me. I could see what the disfiguration was that the doctor had mentioned in Mr. Napier's file. He'd managed to do quite a lot of damage to himself in just a couple of days of being awake. His left arm was in a sling, and those slashes on his face were, quite simply, horrific. They were red and the black sutures were tight over his skin, creating even bumps along the cuts. I couldn't imagine how badly they must be hurting, but his eyes didn't show any pain. Just a deeply seated hatred.

I smiled at him. "Hello, Jack. I'm Doctor Natalie Owens. I'm one of the hospital psychiatrists."

I wasn't expecting a polite hello back, or any answer for that matter. His eyes were dark and glistening in the dim room, his hair limp over his forehead. "How nice for you," he muttered sardonically, and turned his head away.

His reaction didn't really surprise me. I couldn't guess what he was feeling. I couldn't even put myself in his situation because my mentality was different from his. First of all, the most fundamental difference was that he was male, and I was female.

I sat down on the chair I had pulled over. "I understand you have been having some problems adjusting to your situation. Granted, I'm sure it must be very difficult to cope." I couldn't assume to know too much about what he was feeling. The evidence showed he was having trouble, that was all. He was fighting the nurses and harming himself in doing so. He was hostile and vehemently refused any sort of emotional connection. Probably one of the most difficult types of patients to work with.

Without turning to look at me, he said, "You don't know the half of it."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "Would you care to talk about it a little bit? Perhaps we can make your stay here more comfortable."

He turned back to face me, his face thoughtful. Then he glanced at the ceiling. "No, I don't think that's possible. As a matter of fact, I don't have any inclination to believe such a thing is even likely."

I kept my face stoic. He was mocking me. Not the best thing to deal with after the shouting argument I'd had with Shelly. I couldn't let my rage from that incident interfere now. He was very obvious when he said it, like he _wanted_ me to notice he was mocking me. But I was the professional here. Acknowleding negative behavior wouldn't help right now.

I pretended I didn't notice his tone. "Oh? Why is that?"

"I, uh, _really_ don't have anything else to say to you." He was talking normally now. Totally sincere about what he meant, but not particularly nice about it. He didn't move his eyes away from me. He was looking to see how I'd react. I studied his face for a moment. The sharp line of his jaw, and those horrible cuts on his face. He might have been a handsome man once. But his unsolicited hatred coupled with his injuries made him most unpalatable.

Still, he was a patient. I had to treat him respectfully.

"Well, in that case, I'll do what I have to do as part of hospital procedure and leave you alone. Is that good for you?" That last part was a little too sharp on my part. I was still sort of bitey from that fight with Shelly. I'd have to watch it. I should have calmed myself down properly before coming here.

But he didn't seem to notice the slight sting of my last question. Instead, he had a wicked quip of his own. "It would be _perfect_ for me if you just leave right now."

I gave a chuckle because that was just was I was thinking. I _did _want to leave. I needed more clarity of thought. I needed to be more relaxed. I was too tense. But I was at work, and I had a job to do. "I'm sorry, Jack, but I can't do that. Otherwise I'd be considered neglectful of my duties."

I opened up the file before he had a chance to disagree. I took out a spiral notebook of laminated cards and put them face down on my lap. They were cards to gauge speech and cognition in a patient after they are awake from a coma. Sometimes they can't get the word out that fast even though they know what it is. It's a common problem with patients that suffer brain injury. "Would you mind if I turned the lights on?" I asked, to offset the fact that I didn't let him stop me before I took the flash cards out. He seized the opportunity to assert control. "Yes," he snapped. How immature. But this wasn't because he was a possible psychiatric patient. Some men just never grow up. Okay, I was being sexist. Some women never grow up either. There was a perfect example sitting at the desk in the psych ward lobby, her chair creaking under her girth...

I didn't react to his tone, again. "Can you see well enough then?" I asked calmly.

"Yes," he muttered through his teeth. "Get on with it."

Well, he was getting angry. I couldn't stay here much longer, but he did give me permission to hurry up and get my job done so I could leave him alone. So, I did.

We went through a series of about ten pictures, and I expected any moment for him to give a roar of frustration and scream at me to get out. But he never exploded like that. Every flashcard wound him up tighter and tighter, and he seemed to notice how worked up he was getting, because after the motorbike flashcard he took a deep breath and let it out. It was that difficult for him to relinquish control. Over something so simple. It was that easy to get him angry. Just take a little control away. Not a very nice guy.

I glanced down. The next picture was of a clown.

I waited like I'd waited for him to name all the other pictures, but the change in his expression was drastic when he laid eyes on the picture. He was almost in awe. Puzzled and surprised and...well, innocent. Just for a moment. He looked at me, his expression almost child-like. I nodded. "That's a clown," he said simply.

I smiled. "Good." I wanted to say more to respond to his positive change of attitude, but I didn't right now. If I brought attention to it he might turn nasty again. I went to turn to the next page, but he stopped me. "Wait."

He stared at the picture for a very long time, his eyes shifting over the card, his face confused and curious. I think he was staring for about two minutes. I let him, hoping that perhaps he was remembering something.

Finally, I asked, "Is something wrong?"

He looked at me, then at the picture again. "No," he replied, almost sadly. The change in his emotions was so shocking. Again. From hatefulness to confusion to sadness.

"Do you remember something?" I asked cautiously. It was a risky question. He could answer or he could start hating me again.

He did the latter. "Let's go to the next picture."

_Shit_. I was grasping at straws now. He was on total lockdown. But I tried anyway. "If you like we can--"

"I told you I have nothing to say to you," he cut me off roughly. "Just finish this stupid test and leave me alone."

I just blew it. Oh well, there would be more sessions. That was for certain. "All right." We went through the rest of the pictures very quickly, and he named each one easily with a flat tone. No longer getting angry, no longer itching for control. He was thinking about the clown picture. He had felt a memory, maybe he could actually say what happened to him but he wasn't telling me anything right now. He had no intention of doing so. I knew that, so I didn't push him to tell me more. That would make him retreat deeper into himself. And I couldn't have that of course.

When the flashcards were completed, I put it back into the file. I'd have to make notes later on the speech test. I should have been making them during the test, but, oh well. He was fine anyway. Nothing impeding his speech or cognition. I dug into my coat pocket as I stood up. I needed to let him know that he could contact me if he wanted. I was there and I was a willing friend. I pulled out my business card and put it on his bed, next to his pillow. His wrists were restrained to the bed and there was no point handing the card to his fingers. "My extention is on there. If you would like to chat, please tell one of the nurses to page me. I'll be here as soon as I can." He looked at my card unsurely. I patted the side of his bed twice and left. I'd return later with something that might be of help.

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_As I've mentioned before, I'm not a psych student, but I really enjoy studying people and well, I'm doing my best to make her sound like an objective, observant psychiatrist. So sorry if I get it wrong! _

_Please read _The Shinigami Wager._ I'd love to hear what you think of it. It's pretty psychological too, so if you like that kind of stuff, you'll like that story. _


	3. Chapter 3

_Hi everyone. Wow it's been like two weeks since I last updated this story. I'm sorry about that, but something like that happening again is not unlikely. However, like I said in my other story, I'll try to update both stories about once a week. Enjoy, and please review!_

_**Chapter 3**_

I left Mr. Napier's room and headed straight for my office without making eye contact with anyone. I felt Shelly's eyes on my as I headed to my office, but she said nothing, only tried to get me to look at her as I walked by.

I checked the clock that sat on my desk. I was booked for the next two hours with two appointments. Then I'd go out for lunch. Well, that poor guy probably couldn't stand being in there with nothing to entertain him. I mean, how long can anyone watch TV? Or lie in bed? Or be restrained for that matter? I was actually willing to bet that most of his hostility came from being imprisoned in the hospital room.

I'd just get something from the cafeteria and carry it back to my room. I thought it was great that something had affected him so deeply. He had also been surprised, I remembered. Almost like he couldn't believe his reaction either. Well, I'd be an idiot if I missed that expression on his face. Actually, anyone could have seen the change in him at that moment. _So, clowns, huh?_

I carried over a tuna salad in a clear plastic tray and a plastic cup of icetea back to my office. In reality, my lunch hour was not even an hour. It was only thirty minutes, which was actually quite generous, considering any employee here didn't have to wander far for a meal.

Setting my food on the desk - after pushing aside a prescription pad and a pale pink vase of lavenders - I went for my mouse and clicked on the browser link. I went to the Google images search page and typed in clowns. From there I just found the biggest and clearest pictures and printed them out. I actually spent well into the next hour doing that. My next appointment wasn't until an hour later. Okay, I had to stop. There were still many great pictures and photos available, but I thought I collected a good range of clown-related pictures.

Stuffing all of them into a beige folder with a tab, I noticed that I hadn't even touched my food. The icetea was sweating all over my desk and the water was almost touching my prescription pad. I moved it away and left my office. I'd eat later.

When I walked into his room, it was very dim, once again. He was awake, and staring at me with dark eyes. I closed the door behind myself and noticed that he looked over at the card I'd given him. "Hello, _Doc_," he said by way of hello.

"Hi, Jack. May I turn the light on?" I was used to calling my patients by their first names. It's easier to talk to someone you know on a first name basis. Most of my patients didn't even call me doctor. They called me Natalie. I was a little more cautious when it came to dealing with male patients, though. Some men think, "Call me Natalie," means, "Sleep with me."

Almost formally, he replied, "Yes." I flicked the lightswitch on, flooding the starch white room with bright light. I walked over to him and removed the restraint, and lowered the guard rail. The whole situation must have been uncomfortable for him. I noticed he was still unsteady from a month of not using his muscles, so I helped him sit up, with my left hand on his warm, somewhat bony back. Every ICU patient always loses a tremendous amount of weight.

"I printed up several pictures that might be of interest to you."

He cocked his eyebrows and looked down at the folder as I placed it on his lap. I fixed the blanket because his knee was showing. He didn't seem to be uncomfortable though. Most patients would have been uncomfortable with the blanket uncovering an area so close to their groin. I said, "I'm sure you weren't expecting yourself to react that way when I showed you the clown. So I printed up as many clown pictures as I could find, to help jog your memory, if possible."

He opened up the folder as I talked. After a moment of studying the page, he gave a small laugh. "I was starting to wonder if colors existed or not."

I looked around and had to agree. "Yes, I always thought these rooms were dull. But most patients in ICU are usually in an induced coma. You're the only patient awake in ICU."

He made no reply, but began to flip through the printed pages. He didn't say much, quickly going through the pictures, and I started to wonder if he was deliberately not commenting on anything. I made a point to arrange the pictures in some type of order, with the ones least likely to create a reaction in the beginning, and the most provocative ones at the end. It wouldn't help anyone to place the pictures in random order.

He stopped at a picture of a half-naked Drew Barrymore with lipstick smeared on her face. I could have almost predicted that, considering the fact that he was male. Of course, that picture was connected marginally with the other ones. Maybe that was simply the reason for his attention. "What do you think of that one?"

He shrugged, not looking at me. "I was just wondering why this was here."

"Oh." Okay, so nothing else struck him as unusual about the picture. "Well, I just added in anything that had the tiniest connection to clowns."

He nodded slightly. "I thought as much."

"Has this been of any help to you so far?"

"Not--" he flipped to the next page, "--really." I noticed he started with a deliberate tone to sound uncooperative, but he lost interest in that the moment he saw the next picture. Stephen King's _It._ He studied the picture for a moment and then his eyebrows arched. "Man, someone get some hand lotion for that guy!"

I burst into laughter at the sudden humor. I had to agree. The monster clown's face was painted white, but his hands looked like something reptilian. "You should read it sometime, it's quite terrifying."

He waved his right hand. "Oh please! I'm scarier than _that_." Then he suddenly looked at me, totally serious. "Don't you think so?"

I was surprised by the abrupt, total attention he just fixed me with. Was he? Well, he could have been, I realized. But he wasn't. Sitting here in this white hospital room, muscles atrophied, unable to even sit up without help...no, he wasn't.

But he could have been.

I glanced stoically at his gashes, observing the angry red inflammation and the black, hideous sutures. I'd seen worse in med school. I looked into his eyes calmly. "It depends on whether you're a victim or not."

"Oooh," he drawled. Clearly he was very amused. Then he chuckled deeply. His voice had a great range, able to go from very high to very low. "Is that, uh, just another way of saying that you don't trust me?"

"Well, I never said that," I replied nonchalantly. This behavior was not unfamiliar to me. I had worked in a different setting from this hospital. And some people were just dying to get others to trip up and admit something they didn't want to. Some people say things to make another uncomfortable, just because it makes them feel like they're in control. After years in such a setting, those people eventually start to wear the sane person thin. But that wasn't the reason I left Arkham Asylum. My problem was one hospital employee.

Jack was smiling slightly, but he nodded patronizingly. "Yes, you're right. So, hypothetically, if I'm not a victim, what am I?"

I studied his face for a moment, then leaned back in the chair and glanced at the ceiling. I couldn't diagnose anyone without proper history. So I said, "Judging by the fact that I have no records of family history, likes, dislikes, psychological patterns, genetic diseases, or addictions, I think I can safely assess that you're a product." Products and victims are similar as far as environments were concerned. But I always thought that their psychologies were different. Products were people who had been victimized, but they don't know it. They're more dangerous than victims, who know they've been victimized and understand that they are not to do the same thing to others. Victims have the room the heal. Products will never heal until they realize they are victims.

Well, he didn't like the fact that I called him a product. He clicked his tongue. "And I was just starting to like you."

"Well, my opinion is bound to change. I have practically nothing to base a diagnosis on."

He went back to the pictures. He was bored already. But the pictures kept him entertained. The next bunch was all pictures of scary clowns. "Have you ever treated anyone with coulrophobia?" He asked, not looking at me. I was surprised he knew the term for the phobia. Most people weren't aware of what it was called. "No, I haven't had the liberty," I replied.

"Does trauma with clowns cause that fear?"

"Sometimes. If that trauma isn't dealt with right away. psychological problems infect and fester just like a physical injury if untreated. The only difference is that psychological problems are not apparent on the body." I couldn't count the number of patients who had suffered for years, decades even, with psychological problems without realizing they were afflicted. For years they went on, damaging relationships, their children, other people, their whole lives just because they were too afraid to acknowledge they had a problem, or because they simply didn't know they did.

"Don't I know it," Jack replied. I thought it was a curious reply, but I imagined his life hadn't been the most wholesome. What sort of life must he have led to have his face carved up? Maybe he did it to himself and couldn't remember. Self-mutilation was not uncommon for the psychologicall disturbed. But usually facial self-disfigurement was virtually unheard of. Even people that committed suicide never shot themselves in the face. It was either the temple or under the chin, if they killed themselves with a gun.

He continued to flip through the pages, and stopped at the first picture of the next theme. Clown fetish pictures.

He didn't stop for more than a few seconds, and continued to flip through it like he was going through a list of menus in the Yellow Pages. "Tell me, Doc, do you have a clown fetish?"

I laughed slightly. "I can't say that I do."

"Do you think I do?"

"I don't know," I replied truthfully. I would need personal belongings or life history before I made that assessment.

"Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable?"

I noticed that my answers to his questions had grown rather short and abrupt. I hadn't had sex in two months. The last time was with Devon. As a matter of fact, just the day before I had found him with that woman with those bright red shoes..."Not really. It's an important part of psychology." A rehearsed answer. Perfected over the years. Yes, it made me very uncomfortable. Especially around men. And _especially _around criminally insane ones who had raped and tortured others for their own pleasure or delusions of grandeur and megalomania, and confided in me that they wouldn't mind doing the same to me...

"Hmm." I noticed with relief that he couldn't sense my discomfort. He started at the clown fetish pictures again and flipped through them. "Do you feel anything for those pictures, Jack?" I asked after a moment. They were the only set of pictures that he looked through a second time.

"Could you do me a favor?" He asked, completely off-handedly.

Puzzled, but eager to help, I asked, "What is it?"

"Can you bring me a deck of cards? I get so bored here."

"Oh." It was such a simple request. "Of course." I paused for a moment. "You didn't answer my question."

"Yeah I know." _Oh, he knows._ "I, uh, don't feel like it."

He closed the folder and handed it back to me. _Just like that? You don't feel like it? What happened here?_

"You don't feel like answering my question?" I asked slowly, taking the folder back.

"Nope."

I frowned slightly, wondering why he had the sudden change in tactics. What did I miss? Was there even any sign that I could have missed? I didn't think so. It was out of nowhere. Totally unpredictable.

"Okay then. I wouldn't want you to talk about something that makes you uncomfortable."

He lowered his head and looked up at me. "Watch it. I said, I didn't _feel _like it."

There, he'd done it. Tripped me up, at last. _Fuck_. "I didn't mean it that way," I replied quickly, before I could stop myself. _Does every session have to end like this with this guy?_

He didn't accept my apology, merely cut me off. He lifted up his right hand. "Don't forget to replace my shackles."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

Still disappointed at the sudden turn of his relaxed mood into something foul and distasteful, I walked to the nurse's station and requested a copy of his entire file. While I waited, I flipped through the printouts of the clowns and picked out the ones to which he had reacted. When I was finished I noted that they were only a disappointing few. This man kept his emotions hidden. While his mood was far from stoic, I could see how one could know this man for years and not ever know who he really was.

Even at the level of his vulnerability, he still exuded control in the situation. People like that worried me. They had the makings of cult leaders, full of charisma to manipulate others into attending to their selfish goals.

When the nurse returned with my copy of his medical file, I asked, "Does he have any family?"

She shook her head. "No. But there is a woman who comes to visit him. Her name is Teresa...something. Let me go take a look at his visitor's log."

She left me to study the file and returned with a piece of paper with her name and number on there. "Teresa Giordano. Here you go. She'll be glad to hear anything from you. She told us he's nothing she remembers him. He's like a different person."

It would be very helpful to talk to someone who knew him before his accident. If it could be called an accident. If I was to make a calculated guess, I would think that someone tried to kill him, and failed.

"What happened to him exactly?"

"Listen, I don't ask questions about stuff like that. It looks bad to me though. I mean, did you see his face? They said he was found at Toxic Acres, in one of the mud pits."

"Have any cops shown up?"

She nodded. "When he was first brought in. They even fingerprinted him. But none of it matched their records. Then they never came back. No one even reported him missing." There was a trace of pity in her voice.

"Did Teresa have anything to say about all this?"

"She didn't look like she wanted to talk about it. She actually said she hasn't seen him over two years. There was another young man who was brought in with him. His name is Chris Janson. He was in ICU for about a week, then he was sent to recovery. I'm sure he's home by now though. He never told us anything. Not a word. You can ask the nurses in the recovery ward, but I think you'll get the same answer."

"Did he talk to the police?"

"Yes, I remember the police visiting him. But that first time he didn't tell them anything. They were in there for a long time, asking him the same questions over and over. I tried to kick them out myself. That poor kid had three bullet wounds. His body was already under a lot of stress, he didn't need these people bothering him. But those cops didn't leave. Finally I had the doctor order them out. This is a hospital, you know? Not a police station."

"You don't think he was involved in criminal activity?"

"Oh, of course he was. That's why he never told the cops anything. But he was good. Always said ma'am and thank you and never raised his voice. All the nurses liked him."

"Do you have his number?"

"Well," she began in a quiet voice. "I'm not supposed to give out his number if he's not your patient."

"Do you think you can make an exception this one time?" I probably shouldn't have asked, but I was curious to learn more. _Natalie, this is really unprofessional._ I mentally gave my conscience the boot. "Please?"

The nurse hesitated. "Tell you what, why don't you ask Teresa for the number. If she can't provide you with it, then I'll give it to you. What do you think?"

"That will be great. Thank you--"

Then there was a voice over the PA system, outside the ward. I excused myself because I thought I heard my name being called. And sure enough, the woman's voice - Shelly - repeated herself: "Doctor Natalie Owens, please report to the Psychiatric Ward."

I returned inside the ICU and thanked the nurse again and took leave.

Upon reaching the Psych Ward, I checked my watch. I didn't have any appointments right now. I wondered what was happening. Maybe Shelly complained about me to the administrator.

But when I approached the desk, Shelly nodded towards my office. "There's a woman who wants to see you."

Muttering a thanks, I walked to my office. There was a plain-looking woman seated in one of the chairs. Her hair was shiny, but pulled back with a black hair clip. Her clothes were all dark, dull colors. "Hi, may I help you?"

She turned to look at me and stood up. She had clear skin but wore no makeup. I looked into her eyes saw a depressed individual. Seriously, she said, "Hi. My name is Teresa Giordano. I was told I could talk to you about Jack."

I smiled slightly and put the two files down on my desk, walking around so I could sit in my chair. "Please sit down," I said, gesturing to the chair. "I was about to call you myself. I just got your number from the ICU nurse. She said you were the only person who had been to visit him, and that he has no other family."

She sat down and pulled the chair closer to the desk. I pushed aside my uneaten lunch and leaned forward.

"Yes, that's right. He's an only child. I knew him when he was just a teenager."

"You've known him that many years?" I was truly surprised. "How old is he now?"

"He's twenty eight. And, we haven't been in contact that much. I met him when he was sixteen. And then on and off over the years."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much, to be honest. But we have a long history. And if you need help trying to get him to remember things, I'll do my best."

"Does he remember you?"

She contritely shook her head. "No. I wish he did."

"What was your relationship like?"

For the first time she looked at me. Really, _looked_. She was trying to decide if she could trust me enough to tell me.

"Anything you say to me is totally confidential," I assured her. That usually let most people open up.

Then she looked away and took a deep breath. With as much indifference as she could muster, she said, "We had a brief affair."

"And he was sixteen at the time?"

"Oh, no! He was eighteen."

I found it a little amusing that just two years made the difference between her being mortified by the idea of sleeping with him, and then being okay with it. "You know, men don't think about sex in the same way that women do."

"Well, he was eighteen," she replied, a little sharply.

"Okay. Do you think I'm judging you?"

"_Are _you?" She demanded.

"No. That's not part of my job."

"But you've still judged me, even if you can't admit it as a professional."

"Listen, all of us--"

"You don't know anything about me to judge me like that. And all of that doesn't matter now anyway. It was ten years ago! You don't know what it was like for me. What it's _still _like. You don't know me."

I waited for her to continue. I didn't know how long she'd been waiting to vent her frustration, but better sooner than later. It was obvious to me she still harbored guilt over the whole affair, or was truly terrifed of judgment, so kept things like this a secret. I doubted if anyone else knew of this affair. As much as she would have liked to pretend the affair didn't affect her, even after ten years, it was clearly at the forefront of her thoughts.

"Were you attracted to him when he was sixteen?"

Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "I can't believe you're asking me that. You're not _my _psychiatrist! You're _his!_"

I nodded and looked away. She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. I reached over and picked up my plastic cup of icetea. I took a sip. "Okay. Just tell me whatever you think will be important in helping him." _After all, you're much more able to assess individuals than a psychiatrist._

Her face was a mixture of anger mixed with exhaustion. "You know the only reason you know his name is because of me."

"I wasn't aware of that."

"Chris Janson, the man who told the paramedics that Jack was in that pit, contacted me after he was discharged from the hospital. If he hadn't called me, I would have never known Jack was here. And when I came to visit him, they just knew him as a John Doe. Even the police don't know yet. I haven't told them."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm trying to protect him."

"Were you aware that he was already fingerprinted by the police?"

"He was?" Her voice filled with surprise.

"Yes."

She hesitated. "And they still didn't find out his name?"

"Should they?"

She looked down at her hands. Then she raised her head. Cryptically, she said, "If the police are doing their job right, then yes, they should."

I frowned. "Why, what did he do?"

"I'm sorry. I can't talk about this anymore." She sighed. "Listen, I love Jack. I mean, not like a partner, but as a real friend. He's always been such a good friend to me, and we made a much better pair of friends than a pair of lovers. That affair almost ruined our friendship. I want to see him get better. I want him to remember."

After a few moments, I nodded. "I'll do my best, Teresa. You have my word on that."

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_Please leave a review if you read this. Nothing motivates me like feedback. _


	5. Chapter 5

_Kind of a long chapter I think. But mostly dialogue. _

_**Chapter 5**_

Teresa gave me Chris Janson's number before leaving. Well, the next thing to do would be to call Chris. Apparently he was also caught in some sort of crossfire, and had been in critical care at the hospital for some time. But if he was tight-lipped with the police, I couldn't hope to get too much information out of him about Jack.

But before I could get up and just go, I needed fuel. My hands were slightly shaky from not eating for so long and my mind was working hard, but in virtual circles.

Teresa seemed like a very interesting character, and she looked like she was in dire need of psychiatric help, or at least a friend to lend an ear. But she was actually not interested in trying to get better. I knew from experience that there was no point in trying to help them. The only thing that I could possibly do was to try to understand her point of view, but that was as far as it would go, if I was ever to treat her.

So while I sat there eating my tuna salad, I made some notes in a file of my own about Jack Napier. Included with the personal information page I filled out, I made two different logs about each of the times I had spoken with him, and dated them. I also stuffed his ICU file copy in with my own.

While his current character was clearly hostile, I couldn't make any assumptions about how he was before the accident. Or attempted murder.

Well, maybe it was safe to assume he had been a good guy, since there was a woman here who was willing to vouch for him and say that he was a very good friend to her. And what of Chris? The nurse told me that in his critical state, he fought with paramedics to tell them that there was still another man present there, that needed medical attention right away. So, Chris was also good friends with Jack. Or, at the very least, he didn't want Jack to die. But he refused to give the police any information, and I assumed that was including any info about Jack. So that could mean he wasn't going to rat Jack out for anything.

Finally I shook my head. _Stop_. _You're not going to learn anything sitting here and hypothesizing. _

I checked my sterling silver wristwatch. The time was almost four. Maybe it was a good time to call Chris now and find out if he could meet with me.

Dabbing a napkin at the corners of my lips and taking a sip from the watered-down icetea, I dialed to the outside line and called Chris.

A man's deep, smooth voice answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi. May I please speak to Chris Janson?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

"My name is Doctor Natalie Owens. I'm treating Jack Napier. He's your friend, I presume?"

There was a long silence on the phone. Then a sigh. "How's he doin'?"

"I think it's safe to assume he's been better. Would it be possible to meet with you? I'd like to ask some questions about his past. He can't remember anything."

There was another pause. "I don't know," he replied slowly.

"It would be really helpful for his treatment if I could just know more about him. The real him."

"How'd you get my number anyway?"

"I hope you don't mind. I asked Teresa Giordano." I glanced at Jack's file to make sure I was saying her name right.

"Oh. Well, why don't you talk to her instead of me? She's known him longer than me."

"I already spoke to her. She told me she hasn't had any contact with him for over two years. And that she wouldn't have even known he was in the hospital if you hadn't called her first."

"Yeah, that's right."

"How do you know Jack? Did you two work together?"

After a short pause he said, "Yeah."

I wondered why he waited that brief moment, and his tone had been furtive. "Does he have any family?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Both his parents are dead."

"How did they die? Usually people still have their parents at age twenty-eight."

"Listen, are you sure I'm the right person to talk to? Teresa could've told you all this stuff."

"Well, I think it would be more helpful to talk to you because you were there during the events leading up to his accident."

"Accident? Yeah." He gave a grim chuckle. "What kind of doctor are you?"

"A psychiatrist."

"You might be too late to help Jack in any way."

"Why do you say that?"

"Excuse me, but that boy was fucked up way before I ever met him."

"Hmm. In what way?"

"Do you really think you can help him?"

"I know I can try."

"You ain't talked to cops or nothing have you?"

"No. I know he was fingerprinted because he was admitted to the hospital under suspicious circumstances. And I know they haven't been back yet."

"I don't wanna deal with none of this no more," he said, apparently more to himself than to me.

"Listen, I'm a psychiatrist. I don't care what you or he did. My job is centered on confidentiality. I just want to help him remember his life, treat him enough so he can get back to normal life if possible. I would be very grateful if you could meet with me. Maybe I'm being a little selfish, but learning about Jack will help make my job a lot easier."

"What will happen if detectives try to talk to you about all this?"

"I'll just tell them I can't give them anything because of patient confidentiality. They'll have to come to me with a warrant or a subpoena if they want anything out of me. And it seems to me they don't care much about him anyway, considering they fingerprinted him in order to identify him, but didn't even follow up with the investigation."

"I really don't know if he can be helped."

"I could try. He's my patient."

He heaved a sigh. "Fuck," he murmured.

Finally I said, "Look, you don't have to make a decision right now. Why don't you think about it and call me back later? I'll give you some numbers where you can reach me."

"No. It's okay. I do want him to remember. That boy was fuckin' crazy but he didn't deserve what happened to him. I'm free right now. I'm free all night. When do you want me to come meet you?"

"It might be easier if I could come visit you. I'm getting ready to leave the hospital for the day anyway. Weren't you just released from the hospital?"

"Yeah." Chris gave me his address and told me to come there at any time.

I left my office in a hurry, along with Jack's file.

I used a GPS device to get to Chris's house. He lived in Bludhaven.

Chris met me on his porch. He was wearing a T-shirt over baggy jeans. His hair was in cornrows, and he wore a couple of gold earrings in each ear.

I attracted curious gazes as I stepped out of my car. I was wearing shades because the time was almost dusk and the sun was glaring at me as I drove down the street.

I brought Jack's file with me, and I shook Chris's hand as I stepped up the porch. I pulled my sunglasses off and dropped them in my purse. "Hi," I greeted him. He stood slightly slouched, but when I looked closer I realized he was actually stiff.

"How's it goin' Doctor?"

"Fine. Thank you for meeting with me."

"Sure. Come on in."

I noticed the yellow and orange, flowery decor of the living room. I knew an old woman lived here just by looking at the place. The house smelled of years of home-cooked meals, and the aroma alone put my tuna salad lunch to shame.

"Would you like something to drink?" Chris asked me as he shut the door behind me.

"Um, sure."

"You want some coffee?"

"Yeah, I could use some."

I followed him into the cute kitchen and sat down when he gestured to the chair.

I placed the file on the table as he took out the ground coffee to make a pot. He spilled some of it and cursed. Then he said, "Sorry. I don't entertain guests much. My grandma takes care of this kinda stuff."

"It's all right. I don't have many guests over to my house either."

While the coffee was brewing, he stood against the counter and looked at me. "Teresa probably didn't know this to tell you, but Jack lived here. He rented a room."

I was surprised. "Really? Do you still have his things?"

"No. My cousin got rid of it all. Before I was even awake at the hospital. The only reason I was able to even tell Teresa about him was because he told me to call her if something ever happened to him."

"She told me they were very good friends."

"I don't know about that. He must have not had much friends. He never talked about her. Actually he never talked about anything. I barely knew him, even though he lived here for about two years."

"Would you consider him a friend?"

Chris took out two mugs and poured in the freshly brewed coffee. He set one down in front of me along with a teaspoon and one at his chair, and took out a container of milk and sugar. "Sugar okay?"

"Yeah."

"My grandma's diabetic. She has Equal if you don't use sugar."

"Sugar's fine."

He sat down and took a sip of the black coffee. "Would I consider him a friend?" He repeated. "Yeah. He was good people."

"But you said he was emotionally disturbed?" I poured milk in my coffee and picked up the sugar.

"Yeah." Then Chris chuckled. "He pulled a knife out on me once. And a gun too, another time."

"And you still think of him as a friend?" I looked up at him as I put sugar in there. I started to stir it in.

"Yeah." Chris' expression darkened as he took another sip. "He's better than family, let me tell you. You think you know someone. You think that you, _really_ know 'em. But in the end you don't."

He could have been talking about my own life right then. "I know exactly what you mean," I agreed.

"When he first came here, I saw him and didn't like him right away. I didn't trust him. I actually doubled the rent, and he accepted! I really didn't trust him then. He looked suspicious to me. Then I said he had to pay three months in advance." Chris gave a small laugh. "You should've seen it. He pulled out three-thousand dollars, clean bills from his pockets. We couldn't believe it. He didn't tell me right away what business he was in.

"Then I saw his photo in the paper. Turned out he was wanted for murder."

The room shifted. My heart leapt in my chest. "Murder?"

"Yeah." Chris shook his head. "It was so much shit. I couldn't believe it. I wanted him outta here. Outta this house. But he told me he would tell the cops that we were...'acting suspicious.' That's what he said, the motherfucker." But Chris laughed. "He was...very good at dealing with people. He didn't give a _fuck_ about nothing. He didn't even care when I pulled a gun out on him to try to scare him outta my house. You know what he did?"

I was rapt. "What?"

Chris laughed. "He called me a dirty nigger! Jack had balls, you had to give him that."

Chris' amusement was contagious. I laughed in awe. "He didn't. What did you do?"

"I didn't know what to do. I was so surprised. I mean, he was just tryin' to, you know, get me mad, I knew that already. But I was a little scared too. He was playin' a risky game. I couldn't kick him out that easily. Eventually he just joined us in our business."

"And what business is that?" I took a sip of my coffee.

"I'm not in that business anymore," Chris replied. "It doesn't matter anyway. He was really fuckin' good at what he did. Really good with detail, really thorough, y'know? But I sometimes thought that he was so good at it because he didn't have nothin' else. Like, no girlfriend, no friends even. He worked, that was it."

"Did you ever hang out together?"

"Well, we lived together, but most of the time it was like he wasn't even here. He locked himself in his room most of the time. He was satisfied with his own company. One time, I don't really know what happened, but he looked like he'd stabbed himself in the arm. Maybe he was trying to commit suicide, I don't know. We didn't talk about it. He passed out for a long time. Then he apologized to me for calling me a nigger. I knew he didn't mean it."

"Now when you think about it, do you think he was suicidal?"

"I really don't know what to tell you about that. He only stabbed one arm. And it wasn't a cut like, it was a stab. But he never did anything like that ever again."

"And what about the events that led him to his current situation?"

"It's kind of a long story. Do you have time?"

"Yeah. Lots of time."


	6. Chapter 6

_I posted that previous chapter in a hurry before leaving for work, and I meant to thank you all for reviewing because it really does help me write faster. So, thank you everyone!_

_**Chapter 6**_

Chris started with explaining how his cousin - he didn't name him - was involved in cheating their boss from money, and that eventually Jack ended up getting blamed for it because he was so intelligent, good at his job, and acted like he was reckless when he was actually really careful with the job. Then he told me that his cousin intentionally framed Jack because their boss already suspected Jack of foul play, and that Chris was forced to go along with the lie because his cousin told him he would tell their boss that Chris was in on the shady dealings as well. Chris then told me he was was shot as warning from their boss, because he believed Chris knew all along that Jack was stealing and said nothing about it. While Chris was only to receive a painful warning, Jack was marked to be killed, and never found.

Chris grew visibly uncomfortable when he talked about their boss - he never named him, either - surgically cutting open Jack's mouth and then ordering the other men to kick him so he would scream and that the cuts would tear further. I felt sick hearing about it, imagining his screams like Chris talked about it. It made me think of Arkham Asylum, the sickness of the human mind when it was bombarded with evil. His words made me wonder about Jack's younger days, when Teresa knew him. Who knew how much she was keeping from me? She didn't trsut me fully, and if she didn't trust me, she couldn't tell me everything that would help Jack.

Even though Chris was reluctant to talk about it at first, he soon started to tell me all of the details, withholding nothing. I had that effect on people, especially when I didn't have a chip on my shoulder about my own problems. It was one of the reasons I became a psychiatrist.

Right now my problems didn't seem so bad. Mine weren't matters of life and death. I recalled Chris' earlier stiffness, and realized that he was probably still in pain from the injuries.

When he was done talking he just stared at his cup of coffee, both his hands cupping the mug.

I allowed him to compose his thoughts, and he did quickly, taking a sip of coffee and then asking, "So he's physically okay then?"

"Seems to be. You haven't been to visit him, have you?"

Chris shook his head. "You probably think I'm a shitty friend, huh?"

"Not at all."

"I don't want no one finding out he's still alive. I don't think Gallagher knows. Well, that's only if my cousin or his roommate ain't told him already. I'm hoping they ain't going to."

"Do you think you're being followed?"

"Yeah."

"How do your cousin and his roommate know that Jack's still alive?"

"Well, they were there, y'know? When Jack was gettin' the shit kicked out of him. They were there, they watched all of it, just like me. And they didn't do _nothing_ to help him. It was fucked up."

"Have you talked to them since?"

"No." He licked his lips. "They're dead to me."

The second time something he said resonated deeply within me. _I know exactly what you mean. _But I just nodded. I was here in a professional capacity.

My coffee was cold, but I drank it down anyway. Then I asked permission before helping myself to some more.

"So, did Jack have any strange obsession with clowns?"

"Clowns?" He echoed. "Not that I know of. I told you, he didn't talk about much. He was very private. He didn't trust no one."

"Did he trust you?"

Chris turned around in his chair to look at me. "He actually did, yeah. I didn't want him to get framed, and I knew my cousin was messin' around with drugs. I didn't tell Jack nothing. I was hopin' that would keep him out of trouble. But Jack was so fuckin' stubborn. He never listened. I tried to talk to Gallagher too, when we all took Jack over to Tonnelly Acres." Chris paused. "That's when he shot me."

"He didn't even hear you out?"

"No. He was pissed. I mean, he was losin' hundreds of thousands on a monthly basis. Maybe more, who fuckin' knows. I'm done with this shit. As soon as I'm better, I'm goin' to do somethin' else."

"Good."

He shrugged. "I wish I'd smartened up earlier. Then maybe I would be all right. And Jack too."

_I should have suspected something too. I'm a psychiatrist, how could I miss it--Stop it! Don't think about Devon. Focus._

"Do you think he murdered anyone?"

Chris rubbed his forehead. "Jack was outta line almost all the time. He'd piss off customers and make jokes that made people fuckin' mad. He was my friend, y'know? You don't want to think terrible stuff about friends. But he told me he killed more than one person."

"He admitted it?"

"Yeah. I asked him. Point blank. He was like, yeah, don't tell anyone."

"He said that?"

"Yeah. He told me he killed his father and his bitch--Excuse me, mistress, and also some guy...I forgot his name. I don't even know why Jack killed him. I read the newspaper articles of his most recent murder and found out that he killed Teresa's ex-husband. But that was in self-defence. He left his knife at the scene and that's how they tied him to the old murder of that guy. I can't remember his name."

"Well," I replied. "Teresa didn't tell me about that."

"She didn't tell me about that either. I found out through newspapers. That's when I realized why he told me to call her if something ever happened to him. I think he saved her life. He was pretty messed up too, cuts all over his face in the mugshot."

"I'll have to look at those newspapers. Can you remember the date of any of those events?"

"Nah. I just know it happened about two years ago."

I nodded and sighed. "It's strange that the police department didn't find out his identity."

"Well, they wouldn't, if they only searched Bludhaven police files. All the crimes he committed happened in Gotham City."

"Ohhh."

"Yeah."

"Well, that explains a lot. And sheds light on the B.P.D.'s incompetence."

"Yeah, fuckin' tell me about it."

I sat back down at the kitchen table and fixed up my other cup of coffee. "So, what was a normal day like for him?"

"Well, I don't know. He didn't eat with us. My grandma always told him to eat with us, but he never did. I barely saw him, unless we had to meet for business."

"Was he a paranoid person?"

"Yeah, he definitely was. Always carried a switchblade. He was fuckin' quick with that thing too. He slept with a shotgun."

"Did he?"

"Yeah. A day before Gallagher tried to kill him, he came into my room with a pistol. Put that thing in my face and threatened to shoot me if I didn't tell him the truth. Jack could smell somethin' was up, y'know? He knew my cousin was up to something. He knew someone had gone into his room. I swear, I had no idea what he was talkin' 'bout. I hadn't even _seen _Darryl that day. I hadn't been in his room. But I don't think he was imagining things. He was just real sharp. I guess being paranoid comes in handy."

"What were your thoughts in that moment? When he put in a gun your face?"

"Well, I didn't think he would shoot."

"And what happened?"

"Well, I was fuckin' wrong," Chris gave an uneasy laugh. "He shot that gun at me. I mean, I think he missed on purpose. He must have, he was just inches away with that thing. But I really didn't believe he would do that. Then...my little brother came into the room. Fuck, I was scared."

"Did you think Jack would kill you?"

"I was afraid he might. I really couldn't decide what he would do next. As easily as he acted like nothin' was wrong, he could have killed everyone in my house that night. But he didn't." Chris frowned. "He was covered in blood."

"What do you think he was doing?"

"I have no fuckin' clue. I didn't ask either. But...the next day after that, that's when he almost died."

Both of us said nothing for several moments after that. Both of us were thinking.

Finally, I said, "Well, I should get going. If you think of anything else, will you please call me?"

"Sure. If you think of anything else you wanna know, call me. I...wish you all the best. Teresa told me Jack didn't remember anything."

"Yes that's right."

"Nothing at all?"

"Well he remembers clowns."

"Why _clowns_?"

"I have no idea. But I want to find out."

**************************

The sun was gone and the sky was a deep blue by the time I got home. I brought Jack's file in with me, and tossed it on my kitchen table along with my purse and keys.

I was tired physically, and didn't really feel up to going to the gym. But I had to go. I had mental energy to burn. Doing my best not to think about it, I changed my clothes quickly and left for the gym, then came back in an hour.

The file still sat on the kitchen table, and I took out an apple and rinsed it off. It was too late for me to eat a real dinner, and I didn't feel like cooking anyway. I found the fruit unappetizing, but since there was no junkfood around, it would do. I made a note to buy some pears later.

Taking a bite out of it, I opened up the medical file and pored over the pages a little, checking the most recent logs from ICU. Jack was clearly unhappy with being in that room. He forced the intubation out of himself that first day, and literally fought with the nurses. Then later that first day he tore open the stitches in his face, which they had to suture back - while he was still conscious. Then that very same day he struggled in bed with such force that he dislocated his shoulder...which had to be reduced, or relocated, without medication again. And all that was in one day. Clearly he contained a lot of energy within himself.

I carried the file and apple into my office. Over the years at Arkham, I had grown so accustomed to bringing work and research home that I eventually made an office for myself. Devon always told me I worked too hard, which was true, but I couldn't avoid mixing work with my personal life. I took a lot of care to do things right, and while I had regular appointments and visitors at Arkham, I couldn't do much actual work or research.

On a couple of occasions I worked with the police department to catch serial killers, I was called to universities to lecture. Early on - as early as the second year of my masters - I learned that attractive, intelligent women were most feared among men. I'd gone through my share of sexist bosses and colleagues, and I was fed up. Working and getting a job was twice as hard for someone like me, who had to continuously be on the watch for men who saw a woman they could hit on in my place, instead of a human being who was serious about her work.

I remembered in my first year at Arkham when a superior actually, briefly grabbed my butt at the end of a meeting, just as he was leaving. I was frozen stiff at the touch, shocked and paralyzed. He was already gone before I got control of myself. I barged into his office later that day, so livid that I was afraid if I let myself raise my voice just a little I'd scream like a banshee. And he had the gall to tell me it was an accident. I'd threatened people before, I mean, who doesn't get angry and mouth off? But I think that was the first time I meant it. Maybe it had something to do with working with psychotics all day long, some that had killed children, some that had raped and tortured women, some that had purposefully and methodically poisoned other people, but whatever it was, I threatened to find a way to lock him in with our resident genital mutilator and hand the criminal a blunt scalpel.

They were just words, but my superior paled considerably. He tried to hold onto some semblance of dignity by countering me weakly with something about how he could get the board of directors to fire me for making threats. I told him to go right ahead. And that the board would be very curious to know why I made such threats, especially the two women who were on the board. I told him they'd be _very_ interested to hear the reason for such threats.

I considered letting it slide after I threatened him, but by chance I saw one of the women on the board the very next day. I took it as a sign and told her what had happened, and sheepishly confessed that I had threatened him. She looked a little worried, but sympathized with me, and at the same time warned me not to threaten people in that manner. She suggested that I take some time off.

Six months later he was fired for misconduct with the female patients. A couple of months later still, some female employees came forward to testify that this man had acted inappropriately and groped them on more than one occasion. One woman said he forced himself on her and kissed her even though she explicitly told him _No._

A lot of scum was locked up in Arkham, but they were the worst of the worst. What about the sexual deviants that walked free on a daily basis, free to prowl at their whim?

I was very careful these days about the types of men I talked to. I was attractive, I knew I was. While most people considered it a blessing, I took it with mixed emotions. I had very few boyfriends in the past, and all of the ones I ever did ended up cheating on me. I didn't know what it was. I didn't think of myself as an icy person, even if I was reserved.

And then I was back thinking about Devon. Wondering what I had done wrong.

I went on my computer and started to search for the name Jack Napier in the Gotham Gazzette newspaper archives.

I came up with two articles.

Apparently Jack had been in the news before. Mentioned briefly that he testified at the Wayne murders trial against the man who did the killing, a Joseph Chill. Apparently, Jack was a witness to the murders at sixteen years of age. Bruce Wayne was only ten. Then at twenty, Bruce disappeared. Then three years later he was presumed dead by officials. I recalled the news about the famed, but cursed family.

The other article was about Teresa Giordano and her ex-husband's death. I studied Jack's picture in the article. He appeared much healthier and younger than what was left after his ordeal, his skin not pale from chemical reactions, but from a difficult and trying day perhaps. Chris was right, he looked terrible. His hair was a mess, as was his face, all of it was smudged here and there with what looked like blood.

I couldn't believe the Bludhaven police department was so incompetent. I had to go to Gotham City P.D. to possibly get some information about the events from two years ago.

I checked the name of the person whom Jack had killed earlier, the one the PD made the connection using the murder weapon used at the Giordano crime scene. Jamie Roscoe. I calculated the years back from today. Roscoe's murder happened ten years ago. That meant that Jack was eighteen when he killed him.

But what would possess him to kill a helpless, disabled man? The ruthlessness didn't match up with the way that Teresa and Chris talked about Jack. Maybe he had a good reason for killing Roscoe.

Then I remembered that Chris told me Jack had killed his father and his mistress. I frowned. I typed in _Napier murder_, but got nothing from the Gotham Gazzette archives. Could this event not have been reported? It was a double homicide, not something small. It should have been reported. But I could find nothing. Maybe Chris was mistaken. Maybe those murders didn't happen in Gotham.

And, that also meant Jack wasn't arrested on suspicion for those murders. He got away.

---------------------------------------

_I hope this chapter wasn't too confusing or anything. It's turning out like a crime novel or a mystery. I just sort of needed to recap on the previous events, and go over exactly what Natalie knows about the whole situation. Sorry if there are spelling mistakes or typos. If you don't understand something please let me know so I can clear it up. Thank you. _


	7. Chapter 7

_Sorry, I hope there are no typos. I didn't proofread. _

_**Chapter 7**_

I typed in the next thing I could think of. _Jamie Roscoe_.

I came up with four articles. One was the most recent article, linking Jack through the Giordano murder to the cold case Roscoe murder. Another was a death notice, just one sentence. The third was an article about his murder, stating that the police were still investigating. That article was from ten years ago. Then the fourth article was unavailable online. The article was over thirty years old. I made a note of the year - _1972._

I checked my clock, and saw that the time was well past nine. No library would be open at this hour. There was no way I could find out what that article held within its contents. I picked the browned apple core and walked into the kitchen to toss it in the garbage can.

From what I gathered through the articles, Roscoe was part of a performing troupe that held frequent shows at Amusement Mile. I wondered what the article from '72 could be about. A grand opening notice? Was it the first time Jamie Roscoe had performed at Amusement Mile? Roscoe had been 42 years old when he was killed, and that would have made him 22 when the '72 article was published. That meant that Jack wasn't even born at the time. He wouldn't be for...a couple of years.

It seemed to be pointless to pursue Jamie Roscoe now. But what if it turned out to be an oversight? It was just one article. I could spare the little bit of time to read through it at least once. But then I would have to take a little bit of extra time to travel from Bludhaven to Gotham City. I checked my appointments for tomorrow. _Shit, I'm completely booked_.

I could go to the GCPD, but Teresa told me that she hadn't even gone to them yet to tell them Jack's real identity. If they found out, then he might get arrested before I had a chance to even begin treatment.

What if he was given a psychological once over and deemed unworthy of prison? And what if he was sent to Arkham? _Fuck_.

It always made it there once more. My thoughts always ended back there. That place did nothing to rehabilitate mentally sick people. It made them worse. Well, the dark parts of Arkham did. The old building. It didn't matter how much lavender or pretty things I added to my office while working there. It was like I could always hear the torture of the inmates from decades ago. Working nights there was the worst. Sometimes I could swear that place was haunted. There was always someone who called in sick, even surpassing much needed hours of work in order to get relief from that place.

I would walk through the brightly lit halls. But the lights never helped. Lights created shadows, and sometimes shadows moved. I'd see things, like a man's figure standing there or a woman walking, out of the corner of my eye, and I'd turn to look and it wouldn't be there. I'd be printing something or using the copy machine, and I'd hear a very faint scream, or, very quietly, a woman clear her throat or sigh, in the room. I'd stop the machine and there would be total silence, making me wonder if I just imagined it.

Sometimes the electricity would even dim and once it went out completely. There was a room downstairs in the basement, an electrocution unit which was not used since the first inmate, Martin Hawkins was electrocuted to death by the Asylum's founder himself, Amadeus Arkham. The time the lights went out completely, the room to the basement was unlocked and wide open. The padlock was broken. Some people said rust had corroded the metal so much that it had simply fallen apart. Some said chemicals may have accidentally corroded the metal. It was a hospital after all, and there was a laboratory on the grounds. But I saw the lock. It was old, but in perfectly good shape. Except for the fact that it was broken. It lay on the floor in pieces.

A few of us went inside the dark basement. There was one light that was on, but it flickered and went out. We all held flashlights, and we could see dust floating up from the floor. I walked to the chair, which was towards the back of the room. There was no dust. I touched the chair and yanked my hand away. It was still warm, as though someone had been sitting there. The other doctor and nurses who had come down into the basement with me touched the seat, and nodded in surprise and confusion, all of them agreeing that it was indeed warm, possibly with body heat. We all called around the basement, utilizing the hospital security's help, looking for someone still inside the basement. But we found no one. We were all officially creeped out.

But that wasn't why I left Arkham.

Had I known Bludhaven Memorial was going to be so unrewarding, I would have remained at Arkham, and put up with the horrific illegalities and patient violations. I could barely understand my need to be around the Arkham inmates myself. Technically, that type of work was the least rewarding. Those people never healed mentally, they were repeat offenders, almost all of them. In my years there, I never considered any of the patients rehabilitated enough to re-enter society. But other doctors did. Men. Much older men. They cast aside my opinion as easily as a piece of scrap paper, only to find out later that I was right. Only to watch the criminals they deemed worthy to return to society marched back in in Arkham scrubs and leg irons.

While helping ordinary people deal with ordinary issues, such as depression or teenagers with suicidal tendencies, I couldn't seem to find footing with them. I wasn't really sure what it was. I had analyzed myself to try to figure out why I was instinctively geared towards understanding the sicker minds, but I could never really come up with an answer. Maybe it was just because ordinary people were too close to home.

I didn't know what the hell I was doing with my own simple problems, how was I supposed to help people with theirs? At least when it came to psychopaths or serial killers, there were patterns and signs and step-by-step analysis. What was there for normal people? How could they be categorized? There were too many variations. Too many different scenarios.

Shaking my head to myself, I returned to my computer and decided to print out all the articles I had read.

I stuffed the printouts in the patient file, and went into my bedroom.

For about two weeks I didn't sleep in my bedroom, and instead chose the pull out couch in my living room instead. I couldn't sleep on that bed. Not after what I'd seen Devon doing with that woman. But I got rid of that desecration and bought a new one right away. I bought a whole new bedroom set, deliberately making sure none of it looked like my old bedroom set. I rearranged everything. I even changed my wallpaper. It was still lavender, of course, but a different pattern. I changed the curtains. I even changed the carpet.

I dropped over ten thousand on the redecoration, a sizeable chunk out of my savings - for what I don't know, kids? ha! - but it was well worth it. The room resembled nothing from my memory, and I was at peace, at least a little bit.

We lived together while we were a couple. So naturally, his things mixed with mine. That was the only time I allowed myself to break down and have a good cry, while I went around the house, picking through all the things for his things and throwing them into a box. Then in a bout of wounded fury I destroyed everything in the box. He was to come over the next day and pick up his CDs and laptop and ties and underwear and cologne...I broke everything that could be broken - the laptop was especially satisfying, watching chips of plastic fly up as I flung the thing at the floor - spilled everything to be spilled, cut his clothing to shreds and left the cardboard box on my porch for him to pick up. He knew I was home - it was a weekend and I wasn't working - but he didn't knock on my door. I guess he knew he deserved to have his things destroyed.

I fell asleep with the TV on, murmuring and flickering shadows on my walls.

The next day, I almost forgot about Jack Napier's request for a deck of cards. I parked my car in the employees' lot and rushed to the gift shop, but found nothing. Irritated, I rushed back out and went to a small supermarket and found a deck of Bee cards, with red patterns on the back. This would do, and hopefully he would appreciate it.

When I touched back down at my office, I had a message waiting for me, and it was that Jack had been transferred to a more comfortable room.

I made a quick stop at the nurses' station at Recovery and told a woman called Anita to make sure he was watched at all times. I told her that I hadn't yet evaluated him officially, but that I guessed he wasn't exactly a safe individual. She nodded and agreed graciously, and told me there was already a nurse's assistant in the room with him. I emphasized again that she was not to let him out of her sight, and she nodded right away.

I had one appointment that morning, at nine, and I just barely made it. I could see Shelly shaking her head, probably thinking I was being very unprofessional. But she said nothing to me, and I was thankful for small blessings.

I was terribly distracted during the first session, and kept thinking about whether the deck of cards would help Jack in anyway.

But after this session - which was with a middle-aged gentleman who seemed to be having trouble keeping his teenaged daughter from misbehaving - I was free for an hour, so I headed straight for Recovery. Now was a good time to have a short chat, maybe even play a game of cards if he wanted, if that would put him at ease around me.

I felt vaguely like I was meeting a new patient at Arkham. The beginning was a very important time to form a foundation for a trusting relationship. I had to do everything within my ability to make sure he grew to trust me.

I asked the nurse which room he was in, and headed towards the door. I opened the door and asked Anita as an afterthought, "How's he been this morning?"

While she was answering, I heard a crying, moaning sob. I frowned and looked inside the room.

The first thought that went through my head was, _Oh, shit!_

There was Jack, holding a fucking knife to Teresa's mouth, _in_ her mouth! My heart lurched into a rapid tattoo, so suddenly, my hands started shaking, and my voice came out furious and shaky at the same time. It was a roar, I couldn't believe it was me yelling. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!" I flung my things on the floor. "Let her go this minute!"

Jack saw me storm into the room, but he wasn't the least bit ruffled. With a swaggering irritation, he asked, "Do you _mind?_"

But he didn't continue what he was doing to Teresa, or what he was about to do. She spun away from his grip and stumbled towards me. She had a hand over her mouth, her face was smeared with tears. As she came over towards me, I noticed she was unsteady on her feet, sinking slowly towards the floor. If I didn't catch her she would have fallen flat down. I yelled over my shoulder, "Anita, get some security in here!" Teresa sagged in my grip and I looked down, slightly disgusted. But I already knew how fragile she was mentally, and could sympathize anyway. But now was not the time to be weak! This man was attacking her and she was breaking down. There was time to break down later, but first she had to fight. I helped her towards the door and let her slide gently to the floor. She continued to sob, practically unaware of what was happening.

"What happened, Doctor?"

I spun on my heels. _You fucking moron!_ Well, I didn't say that. "_What_ do you think I mean when I tell you to keep him supervised at all times?" _What? What?! How fucking stupid are you! _

She started stuttering, her face growing hot with embarrassment as she tried to defend herself.

Unfortunately my temper was so close to the surface these days it was hard to keep it submerged. "I _told_ you he's dangerous and you just leave him like that? Is this what you do when other doctors give you orders? What, you think just because I don't work in this ward you don't have to listen to me? When I tell you something damn it, get it fucking done! This could have been a _lot _worse!" I had seen a lot worse. Arkham was a place of nightmares. What happened here in Recovery was weak compared to one incident I'd seen at Arkham. An inmate had killed a worker once by simply giving him severe concussions and skull fractures. It took him an overkill of thirty-seven times smashing his head into the wall of the cell to do it. Police counted the bloodstains on the tiles. This could have been a _lot_ worse.

Anita looked near tears, and well, what woman wouldn't be when someone was screaming at them, and I watched Jack out of the corner of my eye as he moved towards the bed and sat down at the end of the bed.

I inhaled deeply and exhaled. Ranting in anger was not going to achieve anything except two crying women in one room with a very collected if annoyed psychotic individual. I picked up the file and deck of cards from the floor and placed them aside.

Then I carefully, gently helped Teresa to her feet. She wasn't looking at me, almost like she couldn't see me. She was stuck in her own wretchedness, blind to all else. I stroked Teresa's hair gently and squeezed her hand to give her some sense of solidarity. "Anita, send her with a nurse to my ward." I shot a pointed glance at her. "Don't send her alone. And get Doctor Phillips to visit her immediately. Keep paging him. Don't leave her alone."

If Doctor Phillips could not visit her soon, I would do so myself. My next appointment would have to wait. Teresa was in a demanding state of emergency.

Anita nodded quickly, eager to remedy her previous mistake. "Yes Doctor." She guided Teresa out of the room, allowing me to turn my attention to Jack. After staring at me for a few moments, he kicked his legs up and spun around, turning to face me fully. I expected him to get up, and taking a step back, I warned, "Don't come near me."

I saw the unmistakable mark of a predator when he chuckled and asked, "Scared?"

Sure, I was scared. But I was no Teresa. I was trained in self defence, particularly so that I could handle inmates who attacked me. My skills had been put to use before, and although I came away with a broken nose, the inmate who attacked me came away with a concussion and a severely bashed pair of testicles.

Teresa had been bleeding lightly at the mouth, and instead of answering him, I glanced at the knife that sat on the bed next to him. I noticed drops of blood on the starched white hospital sheets. I wished I could take the blade away immediately, but he was several feet closer to it than I was. If I made an attempt to get it, he would only gain the advantage. He may even put the knife to my face and do what he was about to do to Teresa. If I had to guess, I'd think he was about to cut her face open just like his. Once again I wondered if his wounds were self-inflicted.

In a very relaxed manner, he picked the blade up. I tensed, but he just tossed it towards me, at my feet. I looked down at it as it skidded to a stop in front of me. _What the hell?_

Again I had no idea what he was thinking. One second he's attacking someone, the next he's submitting without demand. What the hell was going on in that head of his?

Security showed up and stopped at the doorway. I kneeled down to pick up the blade, then looked at the security guards. "He should come quietly. But take no chances."

I was beginning to leave the room when I heard Jack talk to me, saying, "You should have let me finish. Now you'll be guilty."

I stopped briefly as I walked out, trying to figure out what he meant.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Hello everybody! Well, it's been a little more than a year, and I decided it was time to return to the world of fanfiction! If you remember, the reason I stopped was to work solely on my novel, which I intend to get published. It's been a year and I've made a lot of progress, progress that I would have never achieved in such a short time had I been distracted by writing fanfics, as much fun as it is. The reason I decided to continue these stories was because I had another idea for a crossover fanfiction, which I would be thrilled if you checked out. It's a crossover between the Nolanverse Batman and the Silent Hill video game. It's set post-TDK. This is the teaser-summary for the fanfiction entitled, **_**Silent Hill: The Bat: **_I know it cannot be true. Rachel died that day. But I got a letter from her. She says she's waiting for me. In a little town called Silent Hill..._

_**Now, because I don't want you to go through the trouble of reading the preceding seven chapters of **_**The Analyst**_**, I'm going to give you a recap of the events. I think you would prefer to read a few paragraphs rather than a few chapters. **_

_**Natalie Owens, an ambitious, cynical psychiatrist working at Bludhaven Memorial Hospital, is assigned to give a strange, creepy amnesiac an emergency psychiatric evaluation. This patient has been in ICU in a coma for about a month and has just recently awakened. In less than two days, he manages to dislocate a shoulder and tear the stitches that were sewn to remedy the Glasgow grin someone carved into his gaunt, chemically-bleached cheeks. So Dr. Owens administers the standard speech cognition test, showing him random images and asking him to name them. He is hostile and bordering on violent aggression the entire time, except for when she shows him an image of a clown. Excited by his dramatic reaction, she gathers as many clown images as she can for him. While this tactic yields no further insight into his mind, he requests she bring him a deck of cards. She agrees to oblige, and requests his patient file at the nurses' station, granting him a transfer to a room where he has more freedom. In addition to that, she finds out about a woman who has been visiting him frequently, an alleged old friend, called Teresa Giordano. Before she is able to call her, Teresa contacts Natalie on her own. Teresa has her inner demons to speak of, but she refuses to give Natalie the satisfaction of knowing what they are. Teresa does, however, admits she loves the patient – Jack Napier – deeply, as a dear friend, and that she would do anything in her power to help him get his memory back. **_

_**Natalie is also able to learn about a friend of Jack, called Chris Janson, who was admitted to the hospital along with Jack. Natalie realized Chris might know something about how Jack ended up in his current condition. Teresa also hints that Jack may have a criminal file, and implies that the Bludhaven Police Department is incompetent, because they have not already identified Jack Napier, even though they already took his fingerprints. **_

_**The next step for Natalie is to contact Chris. While Teresa is clearly interested in Jack's recovery, she says she has not seen Jack in years. On the other hand, Chris actually lived with Jack for a number of years. Natalie finds Chris reluctant to talk, clearly afraid for his life after the almost fatal gunshots he suffered, but she manages to bug him into agreeing. They meet at his house and Chris tells her everything that happened, from Jack being wanted for an old murder, to being an absolute introvert, almost paranoid at times, even harming himself physically at one point, but very good at their illegal business. Chris explains that Jack was so good at his job, that when their Irish mob boss discovered that someone was stealing from him, he suspected Jack. In the end, even though his suspicions were largely unfounded, the Irishman was convinced by other members of the mob (solely Chris' cousin) that Jack was the thief. Therefore, the Irish boss cut up Jack's face, had him beaten to within an inch of his life and tossed into a chemical mud pit at Tonnelly Treatment Plant. **_

_**Natalie learns during the conversation that Jack actually admitted to committing more than one murder: His father, his father's mistress, and an apparently random man. Chris is unable to provide any further details, and adds one last murder to the list, but points out that that one was in self-defense, when he killed Teresa's ex-husband. **_

_**Practically over-loaded with all this information, Natalie begins some research on her computer. **_

_**She learns that Jack's first two murders were not even reported in Gotham, leading her to wonder if they may have taken place somewhere else. She also notes that Jack escaped prosecution or arrest or even suspicion for those two murders.**_

_**She also learns that Jack's third murder, of a man named Jamie Roscoe, when Roscoe was 42 years of age. The only time that Jamie Roscoe is mentioned in any news is in 1972, and therefore, the archive file is unavailable online. When she calculates the dates, she realizes that Jack was not even born yet in '72, making her wonder how he knew Jamie Roscoe, and what his motivation to kill him would be. **_

_**She makes plans to go to the Gotham City PD for information soon. The following day, after a morning appointment with one of her psychiatric patients, she goes to Jack's room to find out how he's settling into his new room. To her utter surprise, she walks in on Jack holding a blade to Teresa's mouth. He appears ready to cut her in the same Glasgow grin fashion. **_

_**Natalie diffuses the situation. And Jack is transferred to the psychiatric ward to be placed under security. Teresa is in emotional shambles and Natalie understands that she is in need of emergency care. So she heads over to counsel Teresa. **_

_**Chapter 8**_

_He_ was the one holding the blade to Teresa's mouth. _He_ was the one causing her harm. _He_ was the one destroying her psychologically!

_You should have let me finish, _he had said. _Now you'll be guilty. _

_**I'll**__ be guilty?_ I wanted to shout at him. _**I'll**__ be guilty? _

Fuming, I watched as the security from the psych ward cuffed him and walked him past me. He winked at me, lips upturned in smugness. I glared back at him.

Well, what he said didn't matter now. I had to get to Teresa right away.

It took me a few minutes to find her. She was in Doctor Phillips' office, but he was nowhere to be found. A nurse was with Teresa, stroking her hand gently and handing her a box of tissues. Teresa clutched her face with her right hand, her elbow propped on the armrest of the sofa.

The nurse looked up at me when I walked in. "Doctor Phillips isn't around. I paged him three times."

"It's okay." I sighed and placed Jack's file and his deck of cards on the small glass coffee table. I took the nurse aside quickly and asked for Valium. If Teresa wasn't able to calm down on her own, I would give her the medication.

I looked around in brief distaste. That man's office was so impersonal, with its rigid brown sofa and paintings of inanimate objects like cars and boats. Idiot. How was a person supposed to feel life without living things? For God's sake he could have at least stuck up a painting of a bowl of fruits or a vase of flowers. The brown sofa was leather, not even fabric! I couldn't even imagine how one of his patients felt when they eased down on the chilly material. I bet it made all kinds of noise when they moved, making them feel like they had to sit still continually or risk making sounds that disrupted counseling. There was so much wrong with this stupid office!

But this setting would have to do. Instead of sitting in Phillips' chair, I perched on the edge of the coffee table. Phillips' chair was so far from the patient's sofa that he may as well have been in an adjoining room. "Teresa?" I asked gently.

She continued to sob jerkily into her hand. She dug the fingers of her left hand into the leather sofa, almost tearing the material. The leather squeaked under her grip like a dying rodent.

"Teresa, I want you to open your eyes and look at me."

No change. No response whatsoever.

"If you can, please relax, honey."

She shook from a shuddering sob, but other than that, she did not do as I requested. "I want to help you, Teresa. Tell me what I can do."

Teresa clutched the leather more, the bloodless whites on her knuckles spreading.

The nurse returned discreetly with the Valium and nodded in question. I beckoned with my hand and she walked in warily, studying Teresa. She placed a little cup of water and the medication down.

"Teresa, open your eyes. It will help you calm down."

I was usually against touching such agitated patients, but in her case, I didn't think I could expect a violent reaction if I did. So I gently reached out, very slowly, and brushed her knuckles. She did not make any reaction, so I clasped my hand over hers.

Her sobs grew louder and her hand relaxed. I almost breathed a sigh of relief too. I realized how tense I was. She turned her hand out and clutched mine, almost crushing it in her desperate grip. But I knew she was just terrified. I put my other hand on top of her left hand. "If you like you can tell me what happened. If you feel like you're unable to calm down, I have some Valium here for you, okay?"

She nodded rapidly, trying to get her sobs under control. Finally she took a deep breath and clenched her eyes. Tears squeezed out and ran down her wet face.

She collected herself after a trembling gasp and let her breath out slowly. At last she opened her eyes. "God, I can't tell you what I've just been through."

"It's all right. Take your time."

Her face collapsed anew. Fresh tears streaked down. I passed her the box of tissues and she snatched out several to dab her eyes. "Did you get a chance to—to talk to Chris?"

"Yes."

Teresa's lips quivered. "Did you learn anything?"

"I learned a lot."

She did not ask me anything else. So I said, "Did Chris tell you something I should know?"

She shook her head. "He's dead," she croaked.

_Come again? _

When I didn't answer right away, she sniffed and continued. "I went over to his house last night, to talk to him about Jack."

A sick feeling spread in my intestines. She did not have to say any more. She found him dead.

"But…they were all dead!" She dissolved into gut-wrenching sobs, doubling over in emotional agony.

_They_?

I felt sickened further. Chris had told me about his family. His grandmother. But, oh God, she said 'all' not 'both'. Who else was there besides Chris and his grandmother? I dreaded asking.

I sat with her for several minutes, but she said nothing else after that. Her cries grew quiet, but she remained hidden behind her hands. That wasn't even the worst of it. Surely being assaulted by whom she thought was a dear friend couldn't possibly help the situation.

I was beginning to grow impatient waiting for Dr. Phillips. But just when I was about to ask the nurse to page him again, he appeared.

I talked briefly with him, recommending that he admit her to the hospital or have a relative take care of her around the clock. I was worried for her safety.

I had forgotten my anger for a while, but now, as I marched toward the secure wing of the psych ward, tenseness marked my every step. I had to have a word with Jack.

I was directed to one of the holding cells for dangerous patients. It wasn't a padded room, but rather like an interrogation room with white walls and stainless steel furniture. It was not a room designed for comfort, but utility. This room was predominantly used before placing criminally insane individuals in long term care at the hospital. Evaluations and questionings were performed here.

I had Jack's file and his deck of cards with me. I walked in, practically seething. I dropped the file and cards on the stainless steel table. Jack's hands were handcuffed behind him fairly securely. Even though he wouldn't be able to retaliate violently, I couldn't just start yelling at him. He couldn't possibly understand the scope of damage he may have caused Teresa psychologically. But then again…I studied his pale, chiseled face. The cuts around his lips were as grotesque as ever, swollen with blotchy redness and black stitches. He regarded me with hazel brown eyes. They were very intelligent, albeit with a psychotic , unfeeling edge. Maybe he knew what he was doing.

He sniffed the air. "I smell fresh meat, do you?"

He was talking about me. _You'd have to do a lot more than that to get me asshole. _Rather than remain standing, which might give him the impression that I thought I was better than him (which I was certain I was, but that's beside the point) I seated myself to bring me to his level. An equal. To show that I possibly thought he was my equal and was willing to give him a fair shake. "Would you like to tell me what happened in there?" I demanded, my voice a little sharp.

"No," he replied glibly.

I could have guessed. He was stonewalling. It didn't matter. I wasn't in any condition to counsel anyone anyway. I was too frazzled by everything. Just seeing him less than an hour ago, in the middle of attacking someone was affecting me more than I cared to acknowledge. And my mind was already under a lot of stress for personal reasons. When would I ever recover from being wounded by Devon cheating on me? I was tired of feeling this way.

I pulled the deck of cards closer. His brother had come here about a night or two ago to visit him, but for some reason the phone number he provided was of no use. I imagined that if he was Jack's brother, he would have given him some way to call him. So I said, "Okay, fine. Do you know of any other way to contact your brother? The number he gave the ICU nurse is disconnected."

He gave an almost unnoticeable chuckle. "I'll bet."

_What the hell?_ "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Figure it out yourself," he replied, like he couldn't be bothered.

I had to get out of here. I might hit him if I didn't. I picked up the deck of cards. It was worth a shot. "Do you want this?"

Okay, he saw I was attempting to bribe him for some good behavior and cooperation. He smiled knowingly. "I'll live without it."

I shook my head. I knew it wouldn't work. The worst that would happen was that he wouldn't accept. Oh well. "We're going to have to move you from recovery to the psychiatric ward. And we have to put you through some tests. They're all psychological tests, nothing physical." I was required by law to let him know what we were going to do.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" He asked. It was more of a taunt than a genuine question.

But I treated it like a fair inquiry. "I don't make assumptions about my patients."

He laughed. "So that _not_ why you told…uh…Anita, to keep me supervised at all times?" If Anita had listened to me, Teresa wouldn't be sobbing to a useless psychiatrist in a nearby office.

"That particular assumption turned out to be correct," I replied icily.

"I wasn't trying to hurt her, honest." There might have been a hint of earnest in that. But he might have been faking.

"She was bleeding," I replied, my tone biting cold.

He brushed it aside. "That's her own fault. She was shaking too much."

"Because of you." I almost wished I could bite those words back. Accusing the patient for wrongdoing could be detrimental to therapy.

But he wasn't offended. He licked his lips thoughtfully. "Not everyone likes to be helped."

Okay, I could fix the accusation. Gently I asked, "You think…you were helping her?"

"Well, I was _trying_ to…until uh, a certain, _some_one interrupted."

Well it didn't take a genius to figure out whom he was talking about there. I was about to ask him how far he was going to go. Had I not walked in, had no one interrupted him, what would he have done to Teresa? But I didn't ask. "I'll send some nurses to help you get settled in."

With a last glance at him, I stood up and picked up the file. He hadn't really not told me absolutely anything. He did give me something to think about.

I left the deck of cards on the table.

_**I know this chapter was a little uneventful. I hope you are all well caught up, aren't lost or anything. If you have time please don't forget to check out my new crossover, Silent Hill/Dark Knight story, **_**Silent Hill: The Bat. Thank you for reading! **


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